


Masks and Pasts that Haunt Us

by rebaobsessions



Series: Leverage Immortals [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Leverage
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-28 03:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12596952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebaobsessions/pseuds/rebaobsessions
Summary: A job goes south and Hardison's in trouble. Eliot would do something to help, but he's right there with him. Eliot's hog-tied to a pole and Hardison might just have to save himself...A ghost from Hardison's considerable past comes back to haunt him; it's time for him to put some old demons to rest.





	Masks and Pasts that Haunt Us

**Author's Note:**

> This was a little longer than I expected! But, well, it was one of the first I started working on in this series, so it makes sense it grew so much as I tinkered away with it. I hope you enjoy it.

It was supposed to be a run of the mill job. Get in, get out. Everything had been so carefully placed… and then it came crashing down.

It started slowly at first, when the mark’s close friend’s personal assassin (that they hadn’t known to account for) decided to home in on Hardison. Eliot had no idea why, but the large, dark, burly man had decided to corner the hacker at the very first stage of recon, when they had infiltrated a party. The guy had started spouting off about some ‘game’, and Hardison—being the idiot he is—started playing along, refusing Eliot’s efforts protect him.

The next bump (mountain) in the road happened when Hardison was busy playing a complicated game of ‘ignorant not useless’ with the assassin. Eliot was in the basement, punching guys so he could plug in Hardison’s trojan. Sophie was trying to distract the mark, Nate was attempting to man the computers in Hardison’s absence, and Parker was searching the mark’s private office for some leverage—papers or… something

It didn’t go too hot.

They were spread too thin. Their deadline was too short, their plans all undermined. And worse of all, they had not anticipated the mark’s friend. They were cornered. Nate saw it first, like usual, but not soon enough. “Everyone, get out now!” he had yelled over the coms, “We’re blown!”

Too little, too late.

Parker had managed to grab Sophie and help her bluff them both out of the building; Eliot heard them reach safety over the coms (after he had slipped out of the server room, trojan successfully planted) when he was neck-deep in a fight with a dozen better-than-average thugs. He wasn’t able to get out, but he managed to go down with a fight. Eliot didn’t know where the other three were, but Hardison had slipped up with his act or… something, because he wound up knocked out too. They put the pair of them together, side by side, both gagged and heavily restrained to a metal support beam.

The first thing Eliot did when he regained consciousness was assess his situation. As he carefully squirmed in his bonds, he came to a few realizations. (1) He was tied with a constrictor knot around each wrist, the rope ends wrapped tightly around his chest and the pole he was secured to several times. The finishing knot was a simple but secure double fisherman’s knot, laid almost proudly right in the center of his chest.  They were very distinctive knots. (2) There was no way he could untie it in his current position. Even if he was untied, it was unlikely he’d be able to release the knot without cutting the rope. (3) Whoever tied him up was far more experienced than the thugs who took him down. They were _professional_.

They were in big trouble, and from Eliot that meant a lot. He’d been in more than a few hairy situations in his time, but this one was starting to take the cake. See, if it was just Eliot, he’d be ok. He had survived worse, after all. But this… was his team, his _family._ This was Hardison.

Eliot strained his neck to the side, trying to get a better look at the hacker—the insufferable geek who had become a brother to him. He was limp, practically hanging in his bindings, with his head lolled forward and to the side. The angle gave Eliot a perfect view of the tacky dried blood coating the side of his face and staining his originally white shirt a dark crimson-black. Eliot could only tamp down the roiling fire of anger and fear that burst to life in his chest and hope it wasn’t the hacker’s blood.

Once he managed to look past his friend’s deplorable condition, Eliot noted Hardison was tied much the same as Eliot, only there seemed to be as least _two_ double fisherman’s knots. It didn’t make sense, and it made Eliot _mad._ There was _no way_ he could be ok with being tied up, rendered useless, while Hardison was in danger; it went against every instinct in his bones.

The metal door across from them banged open, letting in a chilling gust of wind and drawing Eliot’s attention to their surroundings. They were in some kind of warehouse, full of damp concrete and cold metal. It was completely deserted, save for about fifteen boxes tucked in a corner, Eliot, Hardison, and the two men looming in the door.

One look had Eliot cursing under his breath. The two men were the man Hardison had been playing cat and mouse with for most of the con (the assassin, Victor-something) and the wild card who had thrown the entire plan to hell—the mark’s friend and the owner of Hardison’s friendly assassin, George Markland.

George met Eliot’s blood-curdling glare with a pleased smile, “Ah, you’re awake.” He glided across the concrete until he stood above Eliot, a whisper of motion that had the hitter scrambling to reassess the man. He moved like a _panther_. Gone was the practical, desk-bound business man. Every line of his body _screamed_ trained killer. Eliot’s eyes widened ever so slightly; George’s smile quickly followed suit, stretching into a Cheshire grin, “Oh, you _are_ good. Not just a hired gun, are we? But then, I shouldn’t be surprised. Harold does find the most _interesting_ friends.”

“Magister,” the man’s shadow interrupted, moving to stand at his employer’s shoulder, “He is reviving.”

“Yes, Victor,” George replied a little sharply, eyes never moving from Eliot, “I can tell.”

As though on cue, Hardison heaved in a giant gasp of air through his gag, thrashing briefly in his bonds. Eliot strained his head to the side again to check on his friend, but found his chin caught by his captor, who was suddenly crouched before him. In the corner of his eye, Eliot could barely make out Hardison going deathly still as he watched.

“I want you to understand something, child,” George whispered, words intended for his ears only. Being called a child should have bothered the hitter, but he found himself frozen in something akin to horror; there was a dangerous glint in his eyes that had Eliot repressing a shiver. He’d seen that look before, in the cruellest of his captors—the ones who tortured for pleasure. “Your _friend_ ,” he quietly spat the word, voice dripping with disdain, “is so much _less_ than you think. And I’m going to show you _exactly_ who he is.”

With that, he stood abruptly, turning to fix Hardison with a piercing grin. At a flick of his wrist, his assassin obediently approached the hacker and roughly pulled off his gag.

“Harold,” George greeted the hacker in a silky-smooth voice, “It is so wonderful to run into you again.”

“You-you gotta be kidding me, man,” the hacker protested, “You got the wrong guy, I swear. I told you already, my name is Alec!”

“I know,” the man agreed pleasantly, his smile growing wider and sharper, “And I understand, Harold. Really, I do.” He paused and looked pointedly at Eliot, “You don’t want your friends to know.” Smirking, the tall lithe man slinked up to Hardison, body still thrumming with controlled power, and crouched in front of him. With slow deliberate motions, he fished something out of his pocket and held it out before Hardison’s widening eyes. “See, Harold? They can’t hear you. They can’t find you. My _wonderful_ protégé found these elegant pieces in you and your little friend’s ear back at the offices. He took _great pleasure_ in crushing them.”

As the assassin gave Hardison a sharp smile over his employer’s shoulder, Eliot felt a sinking feeling. They had found the coms. There was no way the rest of the team would be able to find them now.

“Now, my dearest Harold, let’s be sensible, shall we? We both know this has nothing to do with the little scam you and your friends were trying to pull, so stop playing the fool and I’ll cut you a deal. Do you remember that, Harold? How I make deals?” George gave Hardison an almost soft smile, reaching out to lightly brush the dried blood flaking on the hacker’s face. “I was rather kind to you last time, wouldn’t you say?”

Hardison recoiled as though the man’s hand was liquid fire, face going pale, lips pressed into thin lines. Eliot struggled uselessly against his bonds, attempting to make his fury known around his gag. He may not understand _what the hell_ the psycho was talking about, but it was clear as day that Hardison was in distress.

George didn’t turn to look at him, but he did grasp Hardison’s chin and turn his head towards the hitter. “Such a wonderful attack dog. You did well for yourself, Harold. I would be astounded if I had not met that last group of friends… What was her name? Laura? Lily?” He released the hacker’s chin, rocking back on his heels, “Regardless, she put up quite the fight. It was so much _fun_.” George pause, cocking his head to the side.

Hardison was unusually quiet; it was disconcerting. Playing along with a deranged assassin was one thing, but this… This was real. The raw emotion on his face was staggering; the fury, the grief… it left the hitter breathless.

“Nothing?” their captor prodded again. “You haven’t taken a bad quickening, have you?” Hardison remained stoically silent, face twisted as though he had sucked on a lemon, eyes pinched and watery. George shook his head, as though in regret, and stood with a sigh, “I suppose…” he turned towards Eliot, the unnerving gleam back in his eyes, “I’ll just have to remind you.”

“Stay away from him, you _bastard_ ,” Hardison spat suddenly, voice teaming with uncontrolled fury; it was hard and sharp and unlike anything Eliot had ever heard from him.

“Are you sure?” George turned back to Hardison, smirk gracing his face once more. “You always were a _slow learner_ when it came to my lessons.”

“Shut up, Cassius,” the hacker hissed, “You never knew when to stop talking.”

“Really? I seem to recall you hanging on every word I said. Well, before your little _rebellion_ ,” the man sneered. Eliot couldn’t help comparing the strange man to Damien Moreau—controlling, charming, vindictive, and ever so slightly unhinged. And Hardison—Harold—was reminding Eliot disturbingly of himself.

“You mean when I left you and your pile of crap behind,” Hardison practically sneered.

‘Cassius’ chuckled darkly, “Look at you and your modern mouth. Just as dirty as the last time we met though.”

“At least I don’t kill mortals for giggles and laughs, asshole.”

“Ah, but I never pretend to be something I’m not. You—”

“Bullshit.”

The man heaved a dramatic sigh, “Well, I suppose we are all entitled to our versions of events. Now,” George stood up abruptly, “Let’s get this over with. Do you remember the finer points of our last deal?

Hardison’s glare could have wilted flowers.

“A quick reminder, then,” George smirked again, moving to once again crouch before the hacker and, rather creepily, hold his chin. “You are mine. You have always been mine. However, for the sake of modern society, I will give you a chance—just like last time. If you refuse the challenge, I will simply take you, track down all your loved ones, and kill them in new, slow, inventive ways. When you lose,” he trailed a finger across Hardison’s throat; the hacker looked vaguely sick. “I will allow your friends to go unharmed and you will be mine for as long as I please. In the unlikely event you manage to get the upper hand, you will probably kill me.” George gave a feral grin, “I’d certainly understand, my dear Harold, however you would not last long. My diligent student, Victor,” he gestured to the dark man who still lurked in the background, “will challenge you and you will die.” He released Hardison and stood, every line of his body taut with an eager sort of tension, “What do you say?”

Hardison’s eyes were pure ice, “Go to hell, Cassius.”

The man merely chuckled and motioned for his… student to cut the hacker’s bindings. “I’m afraid, dear Harold, that will be _your_ fate, and I will enjoy it _ever so much_ ,” he gave a toothy grin and pulled a shining length of metal from his coat. Eliot blinked in surprise; how had he missed that? A sword was _not_ easy to conceal.

The surprises kept coming as Hardison stood, rubbing his wrists, and accepted a sword from Victor. He seemed pale and shaky, but unsurprised. He shifted on the balls of his feet, adopting a fighting stance Eliot had never seen from the hacker, and shifted the sword in his hand, clearly testing the weight. “Never again,” he nearly whispered, staring at the edged weapon in his hand, “Never again, Cassius.”

“We’ll see about that,” Cassius/George announced, twirling his sword and launching himself towards Hardison. The hacker moved with a surreal speed, moving to the side and bringing his own blade up to block the strike with a resounding clang. As one, the two fighters jumped back with blades at the ready. Off to the side, Eliot just barely noticed Victor sliding into the shadows, an eager gleam in his eye as he watched his teacher prowl around the sword-wielding hacker.

The next attack came as quickly as the last, but this time the pace did not abate; the fight that ensued was fast and brutal and the weapons clanged against each other at a frightening rate. The two fighters fell into a pattern: block, counter, parry, repeat. It was a familiar dance that Eliot had seen and experienced many times, but he found himself riveted and dumb founded. Hardison moved with a fluidity that Eliot had never seen, wielding the sword with power and confidence; it seemed foreign and wrong to watch his hopelessly awkward and gangly friend move with an effortless grace, wielding the sword as though it were an extension of his body.

Just as Eliot was starting to regain enough presence of mind to begin evaluating the fight with his experienced eye (Hardison was losing, and horribly so), the pair came dangerously close; if Eliot stretched out his leg, he could touch Hardison, who was a mere two feet away, struggling to block his opponent’s strikes, each movement just barely deflecting the furious onslaught. George clearly knew he was winning, a vicious smile adorning his face as he focused wholly on Hardison. At second glance, however, the hacker seemed to know exactly what he was doing. There—a pause. Hardison was hesitating ever so slightly between each block, merely projecting an image of ineptitude.

Eliot smiled around the gag still wedged in his mouth as he watched Hardison allow himself to be backed up until he was nearly pressed against the metal pole Eliot was bound to. As George came in with an overhanded swinging strike that Hardison had no chance of blocking, the hacker shocked everyone but the insightful hitter by dropping to the ground and rolling right past his opponent. The strike went long, scraping against the metal pole with a jarring clang and biting into the rope that held Eliot. Victor gave a slight shout from where he still lurked in the shadows and started forward, but George didn’t seem to notice at all; he whirled around with a furious roar, redoubling his assault on Hardison.

As Eliot quickly dislodged and wriggled out of his bindings (watching the rapidly approaching Victor out of the corner of his eye), he noticed Hardison was now holding his own, meeting George blow for blow. With every clang of their swords, George grew more frustrated and more furious, hitting faster and harder until he overreached in a swipe to the leg. Hardison moved in a flurry and the fight was over in seconds; Cassius’s sword hand rolled across the cold concrete, sword clanging behind it, while the man himself cried out, grasping his bleeding arm and collapsing to his knees.

Eliot and Victor froze just out of reach of each other, staring at the scene before him. Hardison loomed over the defeated man, slowly raising his sword to his throat, “I told you, Cassius; never again.”

Cassius, however, had recovered from the shock of his injury and gave the victor a smug smirk, “I knew you still had it in you, Harold. A perfect little weapon.”

The man himself, however, just shook his head, “No. I never was, not like you wanted. And now,” he murmured, shifting his grip on his weapon, “I am no longer afraid of shadows. Not yours, and not mine.”

“You can never be clean,” George tried, attempting to sound superior, but only managing to sound desperate.

“Perhaps, but nothing old ever is.” He gave a small smile, “My teacher, my _true_ teacher, taught me that.”

“You were dirty long before you were old,” Cassius spat, “Morti natus es, minus vile videbitur!” The man slid into the foreign language with ease, the words rolling off his tongue. Eliot wasn’t great with languages, but it sounded like Latin to him.

“Quod satis est,” Hardison snapped back, his voice just as smooth and natural as his defeated opponent. “Casssius Duronius of Apulia, your challenge is lost.”

“Get it over with,” the man hissed up at the victor.

“Very well.” Hardison hefted the sword, preparing to swing. Victor stepped forward with an aborted cry, and Eliot felt his eyes widen in disbelief; surely Hardison wouldn’t…

Hardison stopped short, posed at the top of the swing, shoulders tense. He swallowed hard and turned his chin towards Eliot, although his eyes never strayed from Cassius. “Eliot,” Hardison addressed him softly, a faint hint of emotion cracking his voice, “I will explain everything you want to know, I promise. Just… stay back. Please.”

Wordlessly, Eliot responded by taking a sing step backwards. Hardison swallowed again and nodded once before turning back to the man before him. “As our kind so foolishly says: there can only be one.” With that puzzling declaration, Hardison let his sword fall. Two muted thumps followed, the second larger than the first. Eliot was surprised to see Victor still rooted to the spot, even as Hardison backed away from the headless corpse. A corpse that was… _glowing_?

Eliot watched in disbelief as electricity began arcing from the body and across the concrete like searching fingers, flickering through the gathering mist with growing intensity… until a bolt hit Hardison in the dead center of his chest. He let out a breathy grunt and staggered backwards. As though the lightning was a living creature that had found its prey, the energy centered around him, tiny sparks dancing around his feet as another bolt arced from the body and pummeled into his chest. The next bolt was longer and brighter, causing him to cry out, back arching and arms spreading wide. A crackle of energy raced up a metal beam, before ricocheting back down and hitting at the same time as two other bolts, sending Hardison to his knees.

Hardison _screamed_.

Bolt after bolt hit, dragging agonizing screams from the taut, shaking man, battering him over and over. At some point in the chaos Hardison dropped his sword, but the clang was lost in the crackle of electricity and his cries of pain. When the onslaught finally tapered to an end, the beaten hacker slumped to the ground, his weight barely supported on his shaking arms.

It was then, in the oppressive silence that followed, that Victor shook himself out of his stupor and stormed towards the fallen victor, face twisted in anger, a growl on his lips, and own sword held high. Eliot, stunned though he was, reacted on instinct, darting forward to block the man’s progress and efficiently disarming him in the process. In truth, he wasn’t certain how he did it; one moment he was twisting the blade out of the assassin’s hand, and in the next the man was sprawled, unconscious, on the ground.

He stood there, staring at the two bodies before him—one alive, and one beheaded—for several long moments before a hoarse, cracking voice broke through. “Eliot,” Hardison croaked from behind him, “I— I don’t…Eliot.” The beaten man was attempting to push himself to his feet, staring at Eliot with a look of resignation and utter despair.

Eliot dropped to his knees beside his friend, reaching out to brace him and stop him from standing. “Damnit, Hardison,” he growled (resolutely ignoring the flinch he received), “What the hell d’you think you’re doin’?”

“Eliot?” he croaked again, attempting a frown, head listing slightly to the side.

“You aint standing on your own after that stunt, man,” the hitter berated. He took moment to scan Hardison from head to toe and was appalled to see thick gashes through his shirt. That meant that all that dried blood… “ _Damnit_ , Hardi—” he reached out to check the wound, but found only smooth, blood-caked skin.

Hardison gave a nervous chuckle, “About that…” he broke off with a wince and put a hand to his head.

Eliot sighed, “Let’s get outta here.” He braced the hacker’s arm over his shoulder and stood, helping him to his feet at he did. “But once we get somewhere safe, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

Hardison gave the hitter one of his bright white grins, albeit dimmer than normal, and shook his head slightly. “Tell me about it, man,” he chuckled, “Tell me about it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Translations (courtesy of Google Translate):  
> Magister = Teacher  
> Morti natus es, minus vile videbitur = You were born worthless.  
> Quod satis est = That’s enough


End file.
